


The Sun Also Rises

by AgentCoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ash Lynx Lives, Ash Lynx and Okumura Eiji go to Japan, Ash and Eiji go to Seattle, Boys In Love, Eventual Romance, Fix-It of Sorts, Hand Jobs, Journalist Ash Lynx, Kissing, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Photographer Okumura Eiji, Pining Ash Lynx, Post-Canon Banana Fish, Recovery, Soulmates, Touch-Starved, notes of aftg, sorry nora sakavic, that will only come up non-graphically, working through trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: The worst has happened and everybody lives! After three years apart, Ash finally escapes his violent past and follows Eiji to Japan.A recovery fic focusing on scenes of attempted intimacy, and the slow building of their mutual trust and romance.





	1. kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I started this with the headcanon that yes, I 100% want them to be together forever and never hurt again, but that getting to that place is going to take a very long time, a very large amount of work, and extreme amount of trust in each other.
> 
> That and I just like writing angst.
> 
> Anyways, I'm hoping to explore Ash and Eiji finally attempting to grow something fruitful out of their violent pasts.

**i. kiss**

 

When Eiji picks Ash up from the airport he’s trying so desperately to contain himself, his fervor, his puppy dog tendencies. He knows he’s bouncing, he knows he’s unfettered energy. Sing’s words still echo in his ears though, painfully raw.

_“Just be slow. He’s not himself. He’s changed.”_

Eiji knows this change. This desperate grasp at the disintegrating remains of ones self. He’s been here before and he’s survived and Ash will too.

But still he tones down the ‘golden retriever’. He stands, hands shoved into his pockets, just outside the arrival gate and waits as the crowds of people disembark from the large Boeing 737 that stands, frigid, on the runway.

Eiji allows himself one moment of pensive fantasy. He remembers his own trip back across the ocean as though it were yesterday. The rough seat, the overly polite stewardess. The cold window that he’d forced his forehead up against, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to dampen the gaping betrayal.

Ash hadn’t shown up.

He’d reasoned with himself for months afterwards that of course Ash wouldn’t have shown up. He couldn’t just walk away from his life. He couldn’t escape that easily. He was smart, and thoughtful, and dangerous, and had it been a matter of flying across the world to remove himself from the violence of his being, then he’d have done it long before meeting Eiji.

But still, it was painful. A visceral thing. Bone deep it settled, waking Eiji at night with its raspy voice, filling his head with its niggling doubts.

_He didn’t come because he didn’t care enough for you._

Now though, it’s been three years. They’ve spoken over the phone, they’ve spoken over Skype, and they’ve watched each other grow, change, fill out, ascend into adulthood. They’ve written manuscripts to each other, containing their daily lives, their daily thoughts, their daily ruminations. Containing the small spaces of pure, unadulterated paper that lay empty between each penciled word but are full of unspoken poetry.

He didn’t come because the violence would have followed and Eiji now knows with the depth of his soul that Ash would not relent in this decision until he had severed that part of his life completely.

The people push past him in waves, and he catches whispered fragments of Japanese conversation as they pass him. There are smiles, and exclamations, and joy as individuals find their people, and still Eiji waits, waits, until he sees the flash of golden hair, reflecting the sunlight that streams in the floor to ceiling windows.

“Ashu,” he murmurs, and the bouncing in his feet resumes. He stays in one place, letting the balls of his feet soak in his energy and reverberate it up once more and again and again and again, until Ash is standing in front of him.

Ash cocks his head, and grins, egocentric and beautiful and so very Ash and Eiji can’t help himself any longer. He smells like plane, and people, and dust, and he’s grown even taller in the last three years then Eiji had imagined, but so has Eiji, though it is a far more incremental thing. He springs forward on the tips of his toes and throws his arm around Ash, burying his face in the perfect spot between his neck and his collarbone.

“Hey, big brother.”

He feels Ash speak more than he hears it—that deep reverberation that echoes in his chest. Eiji smiles against his neck then pushes away, giving into Ash’s boundaries, letting him have his space. He remembers how Ash doesn’t like to be in close quarters, how he stiffens and holds himself almost caustically. He is surprised at the easy going smile on Ash’s face here, after being contained for close to 33 hours. Sitting close enough to other people that their skin might touch at any moment.

He sees the way the smile pushes at the corners of Ash’s mouth though, and understands then. It’s a show. It’s staged. And he remembers then, how it’s always practiced like this, in the daylight.

Eiji would sigh, but it doesn’t matter. Ash is here, Ash is home.

He reaches up for the barest of moments, wanting to run his hands through the silken strands of golden blond, but stops himself. It can wait.

“Did you had a suitcase?” He speaks, tongue once more tripping over English that he hasn’t had to use but sparingly in years. Their Skype sessions hardly count—there he’s teaching Ash Japanese.

“Yes I had a suitcase,” Ash says, straight, monotonous, teasing. He reaches out then and does touch Eiji’s hair—runs his fingers through the straight, disheveled strands. “Longer,” he comments, watching Eiji with honest eyes.

There is a flicker of warmth between them and Eiji flushes, ducks down out of Ash’s reach and turns to walk towards baggage claim.

“It makes me look tougher. You know. Now that I am a New York gangster.”

He hears Ash laugh behind him, and then he catches up. The warmth between them is a stunning thing and Eiji can’t help the wide smile that blooms on his face. He turns to watch Ash and notes his smile growing as well, this time organically, not forced, not hard.

“I’ve missed you,” Ash says, and it’s so perfectly beautiful in delivery that Eiji can almost ignore the whispered bereavement that comes on it’s heels. “I’m sorry.”

This statement is full of intricacies. It’s triple sided in it’s utterance.

This is a thing of beauty, a thing of fragility, and a thing of utter terror.

The sunlight pools at their feet as they walk, blissful, unaware, and Eiji shivers.

***

Eiji lives on the fifth floor of a small studio apartment—the type of apartment that is typically reserved for hipsters and graduate students and ‘artistes’. He doesn’t mind the flights of stairs that run zig-zagging up the building. He avoids the elevators at all costs. They are shiny, and new, and they smell of a certain brand of bleach.

They remind him of hospitals and hospitals are not places of joy.

Instead he leads Ash ever upwards, listening to the man trudge and groan dramatically behind him. Eiji just continues on, and smiles. His legs are muscular, athletic, and though it is only a few flights of stairs, and though it is only a walk to unconstrained domesticity, sometimes he looks out the small windows on each floor and notes the perfect window boxes full of blues and reds and oranges. Sometimes he watches the breeze tug gently at the leaves, and pretends he’s flying once more.

Inside, he shoulders off Ash’s bag and watches Ash kick off his shoes at the door—brown canvas, no longer bright red.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet now, and Eiji watches him carefully, waiting for something, waiting for a crack.

It’s daylight still though, and Ash is nothing but perfection when the sun shines.

“Are you hungry?” Eiji finally asks.

“No.”

“It is too bad for you. I have wonderful Japanese cooking. I have prepared all week for my husband to return home.”

Ash cracks a grin at that and lets out a huff of air that sounds curiously like ‘pshhh’ and almost like ‘shit’ and nothing like ‘I don’t love you anymore.’

“Come on,” Eiji appeals. “You know you are wanting this.”

Ash looks to the ceiling, rueful and almost boyish in his avoidance of whatever _this_ is. “I thought you Japanese loved us Americans. Where’s my All-American Beef Hotdog, wife?”

Eiji spares no moment of indecision, he reaches forward and smacks the back of Ash’s head. Ash grunts in surprise, and for a moment they shed three years of distance and become teenagers again—rolling over the spotless bamboo flooring of the apartment, the wood muffling their grunts and kicks and pokes and shoves.

Ash ends up on top because he’s Ash and Eiji squirms underneath him, refusing to give in, laughing and kicking and just like that, Ash lowers his head and Eiji stills, a hair away from bright jade, a whisper away from flesh, a moment away from eternity.

“Ash, I—” Eiji, starts, and then he presses his head up, desperate to taste his mouth.

Ash stiffens and rolls off of him, and just like that, eternity has dissolved.

“Ash?”

“I need to take a shower.” It’s blunt this time, no sign of the brightly colored boy who’d been so close. It’s dry and humorless and Eiji, pushes himself up with a slow nod.

“Bathroom is just around the corner there on your left. Bedroom is down the hall. I can take your bags in?” The question hangs in the air, thick and morbidly out of place.

“I got it,” Ash calls, and shoulders the backpack before disappearing down the hall.

Eiji watches him go, and as the chasm yawns ever wider between them he closes his eyes.

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”_


	2. affirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys all SO MUCH for the wonderfully kind comments! I got so excited by them that I just had to get another chapter up asap :)
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr [here](https://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com/) for writing updates, and all things Banana Fish, Marvel, and Fantasy stuff <3

**ii. affirmation**

It’s in the nighttime that things become familiar.

Eiji’s apartment has two bedrooms, and as such, he’s set his office up as an interim living area for Ash. He doesn’t know if they will return to the way things were, or if it is just another in a long list of exercises in futility. All he knows is that it feels right, giving him this space to be alone.

They sleep in this arrangement for the first few nights; Eiji just down the hall, door wide open, bathroom fan running its low groan of disrepair. He needs the white noise. Silence is far too oppressive.

Ash sleeps with his door firmly closed. A blockade, a reprimand. Eiji doesn’t mind this—they are learning each other once again.

On the fifth night, the nightmares begin.

Eiji hears this, an omnipresent whine. Through the wall, through the sputtering fan, through the sealed door, it leaks. Pitiful in its existence, torturous in its length.

Eiji’s nightmares are liquid black, coating his limbs with their fluid viscosity, but Ash’s dreams are carnivorous.

Eiji stills his beating heart and wills himself to stillness, listening. It doesn’t take long—a single creak of the door and nothing else (because Ash is nothing if not stealthy) before a long and lithe shadow slides into bed next to him.

“Move over,” Ash grunts, and Eiji obliges.

Something within him is warming, and Eiji delights in the slow spread of it through his veins.

***

It goes like this.

They sleep, curled in perfect semi-colons. There is space separating their bodies, but only enough so that the slightest movement causes the barest whisper of breath between them.

Eiji wakes, showers, dawdles in the warm steam of the bathroom as long as possible before returning to the bright kitchen. He pores over his work, his photographs and equipment strewn haphazardly about the small table. His apartment is spotless in its entirety except for this space—this personification of his internal artistic disaster. He makes coffee and allows himself a moment of breathing in the smell of caffeine before eating his breakfast perched on the cheap laminate countertops, his legs kicking at the drawers beneath him. Then he hums, quietly, minimally.

Sometimes, this in of itself is enough to wake Ash from his stupor and he stumbles out from the bedroom, eyes bleary, hands grasping for something, anything. Eiji will push a cup of coffee into those fingertips and watch him drink, big, hurried gulps. Ash swears then, a grunting and annoyed thing, because it’s too hot. It’s always too hot. And Eiji smiles.

Sometimes Eiji finishes his meal quietly, and washes up, cleaning each dish, drying it, placing it gently away in its proper position. Then he slumps down, cross legged on the floor, and hunches over his photos, taking notes, studying locations, planning for his next shoot. When Ash finds him he will sit down next to Eiji in silence for a mere moment before he’s moving again, fingers drumming, right leg bouncing with furious moment. Even when he swallows it’s a jarring thing, demanding of attention.

It never takes long this way, for Eiji to glance up in casual irritation.

Sometimes this is when Ash smiles.

Ash is a freelance journalist now, and is working on an assignment about the economics of class and work in cultural capitalistic Asia. _This is why I came to Japan_ , he tells people, in near fluent Japanese. _This is why I am here._

Eiji knows better.

Sometimes they leave the apartment together, simply walking as far as their feet will take them. Izumo is rural, and it never takes them long to abandon the city proper and find themselves on the seashore, listening to the sound of gulls.

This is a language that is the same a world over—the squawking of birds. Eiji watches Ash’s hair blow in the wind, and watches the gulls fly above them, and the water laps up the rocky beach at them, beckoning, calling, waiting. This is almost freedom. _This is why you are here_ , Eiji thinks.

Sometimes Ash exits the bedroom in the morning and doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at Eiji, doesn’t care for anything at all. On these days Eiji watches him put on his shoes by the front door, shoulder on his brown bag, and leave. The door closes quietly but it creates a resonating bubble of thrusting agony within Eiji’s chest.

***

Ash kisses him on day four of week eight during month two. The clock reads 6:24pm as it happens and the sun is setting, casting a shadowy glow about the kitchen. Eiji’s washing his hands at the sink and he turns into Ash, their mouths meet.

It’s hungry and it’s wanting and it’s deeply regretful because this is also a kind of freedom and yet, somehow, they still haven’t paid the admission fee.

It’s 6:25pm when Ash backs away and his long hair falls across his eyes, partially obscuring them for a magnificent moment of poetry. There is an ache in Eiji’s gut when Ash turns, soundless as the lynx he’s named himself for, but Eiji turns back to the sink. He washes his hands again.

That night, his own liquid terror descends, and he wakes with a single breath—noiseless and muted. He gently raises himself on his arms and turns his body, facing Ash now, no longer an open phrase but instead a closed parenthesis.

Ash is watching him, breathing so slowly his body is flawlessly still. He doesn’t reach out, or speak. Instead his eyes hold onto Eiji’s and they watch each other, a thin sliver of moonlight slicing down the middle of their bodies.

Eiji yearns to reach across that barrier and prove the moon wrong, but there is something about this moment that has been congealed, exquisitely preserved. He lowers his eyes slightly, watches Ash’s mouth as he inhales. Watches the subsequent exhale. He can feel the shiver of Ash’s breath just across his nose and it’s so torturously near that he closes his eyes tightly.

“You were dreaming,” Ash says, and Eiji merely nods, unable to open his eyes and freeze time again.

“I’m sorry.”

This, Eiji jerks at. “Stop saying that.” He won’t look because it’s just possible that if he looks something will crack, and he can’t bear a further injury to this madness. “It is what is. Not something to be sorry about.”

“What _it_ is,” Ash corrects and Eiji finally quirks an eye open. The moment is still there, but they are on the precipice now, no longer in danger of disaster.

Ash smiles sadly at him. “I’m not your answer, Eiji”

Eiji moves then, and the moonlight scatters in fragments as he presses across the yawning distance between them. He reaches out a finger and holds it to Ash’s lips, pressing into their warmth.

“But I am yours.”


	3. amorous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Valentine's Day, have some ridiculously angsty smut! 
> 
> (And thanks to Nora Sakavic for some...divine inspiration shall we say ;) I feel as though I now owe an 'AFTG inspired' tag or something)

**iii. amorous**

“Yeah. Yeah… Yeah. _Yes father_.”

Eiji looks up from the painstakingly neat Nurikabe that he’s nearly finished with to watch Ash as he paces about the kitchen. His hair is pulled back in some sort of almost-ponytail and he looks delightfully artistic—as though he’s considering taking a day in the wilderness to journal about his passion for the dichotomous countryside.

“Max?” Eiji mouths, and Ash rolls his eyes once, then turns back to the sink. His hand reaches up to twirl incessantly at the scraps of golden hair yet uncaptured by the hair band.

There is a moment when Eiji sets down his puzzle, and stands up gracefully. In this moment he walks to the kitchen and steps up to Ash’s tall form and he buries his nose in Ash’s neck. In this moment he inhales, smelling the deeply intoxicating scent of Ash and in this moment his mouth opens and he tastes the delicate skin.

This moment runs parallel to their world and Eiji watches it unfold with a sense of finality. Then he looks back down at his puzzle and fills in another missing number.

“Yes!” Ash exclaims from the kitchen. “I know what I’m doing.”

There is a slight pause, and Eiji imagines tasting that neck, feeling the quiver of breath as Ash exhales underneath his own tongue.

“Great. Yeah. I’ll be there.” Ash puts the phone down and turns. He’s not grinning, but there is a spark deep within his eyes that Eiji hasn’t seen for a very long time.

Eiji puts the puzzle down.

He stands, gracefully.

He walks to the kitchen.

“What does Max know?”

There is a space inside him that might never be entirely filled because he suspects there is a part of him running tangential to now, living in that parallel moment.

Ash puts a hand on the counter, and Eiji watches his knuckles tense, then relax, then tense again as his fingers grip the laminate. “I’ve got an assignment.”

Eiji swallows. “Already?” He asks. His voice is light. It is passive in its nonchalance.

Ash quirks his head and grins. “I’ve been here two months. You trying to keep me under lock and key?”

“No, no, of course not,” Eiji stutters, and Ash reaches forward and grabs Eiji’s hand.

“Hey.”

Eiji looks up into his green eyes and notes how they’ve darkened. They darken when he’s passionate. They darken when he’s afraid. They darken when he’s excited.

“It won’t be long. Just a few weeks. There’s an anti-asylum movement mounting in South Korea right now and the Japanese are looking worse and worse for refusing refugee resettlement. I’m going to do a piece for Max’s paper. I’m close enough. You know.”

Eiji finds himself nodding along, though unspoken words run through his head.

In one moment he says “You mean Max is trying to keep you busy.”

In another it’s, “You mean that Max can see through your tough-guy schtick and knows you need something to live for.

In the moment that almost surfaces, he says, “You mean that Max is helping more than I am.”

Instead, Eiji smiles. “That sounds like a really important piece. Is it safe there?”

Ash quirks a look at him and laughs. “You worried about me, big brother?”

“Never,” Eiji scoffs.

_I’m worried about me._

***

Three weeks feel like eternity.

Eiji cleans, and he walks to the beach, and he photographs children running through the spray of a water park.

He cleans, and he goes for a run, and he sits at his computer, staring at layers, staring at color saturation, staring at moments in time.

He cleans, and he sits on his bed, and sometimes he doesn’t leave the apartment.

He cleans, and he walks through the park, and he photographs a stray dog as it lays on it’s side, panting, dying.

He cleans, and he walks to the beach, and he goes back to his computer and clicks through a file folder simply marked: NY.A Photos

These take his breath away.

These make him heartsick.

These make him feel giddy with it. With power, with joy, with hope, with love.

***

Ash comes home on a Thursday evening. There is no announcing his presence, there is no warning. There is just first a space in which Ash should be, and then space where Ash is.

Eiji is asleep on the couch, but he jolts awake at the sound of the door closing. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and opens his mouth for a moment, letting his jaw pop, letting words find their way back to him once more.

“I thought you wouldn’t be in until tomorrow morning?” He questions.

“Caught an earlier flight. Wanted to surprise you,” Ash says.

There is something maddening about his voice, about its lilts and cadences. The phrases dance about the apartment and Eiji stands, brushing off the blanket. A book hits the floor.

“Norwegian Wood again?” Ash asks, and Eiji fidgets for a moment.

“It’s good writing.”

“It’s melodramatic, melancholic, and depressing,” Ash retorts.

“Speaks the pot.”

“Oh! In three weeks you’ve learned how to use American idioms correctly! I see you’ve spent your time wisely.”

“Jackass,” Eiji says primly, but he’s smiling now also. “It’s beautiful writing,” he amends. “What happens when people open their hearts,” he whispers, feeling Murakami twist fluidly within him.

Ash shrugs. “They get better.”

Eiji’s eyes rise in surprise and Ash is crossing the room then. He’s dropped his bag by the door and he’s still wearing his ghastly burnt orange corduroy jacket and his wire framed glasses but before Eiji can comment on the predictability of his journalistic oeuvre, Ash has run into him and their mouths meet.

This meeting, this kiss, this commodity, is everything and Eiji sinks into the taste of Ash’s tongue before bringing his hand up to cradle Ash’s cheek. He stops though, the barest moment of recall and decision, and instead forces himself to the lapel of Ash’s coat—not touching flesh, not touching Ash, but coming as close as possible without explicit consent.

Ash’s eyes flutter open then, and he pulls away for a moment, only to push back suddenly, forcing Eiji to step backwards, until he is pressed firmly against the wall.

“Is this alright,” Ash mutters at his throat and Eiji swallows.

“Always,” he whispers, and Ash’s mouth meets his once more. Ash’s hands are forced against him, pinning him back, and still Eiji grips at the fabric at his neck. Ash hums his approval while one hand snakes up into Eiji’s hair, and the other moves down slowly, hesitantly. Eiji can’t help but nod, and Ash finally bends his head down, sucking delicately against his neck.

“I…Can I…”

“Face,” Ash says. “Hair. Nothing else.” He’s resolute in his statement, and Eiji feels his eyelashes flutter closed against the sensitive skin at his throat but Eiji just sighs in relief. His hands release the coat and he weaves his fingers throughout Ash’s hair, pulling it free, delighting in the smooth, silky fall against his fingertips.

It doesn’t take long, this thing between them. Ash is gentle and Ash is perfect and Ash is everything Eiji’s ever wanted and he’s coming into the other man’s hand too soon with a groan. His hands still tangle at Ash’s head, holding him there, and Eiji presses his face into Ash’s exposed neck, breathing hard, gasping. He can feel Ash, hard against him, and he wants so badly to move, but he stays still, and whispers, “Can I?” once more.

Ash reaches up and pulls Eiji’s hands from his hair, then gently backs away. His eyes flicker dark green and they glow.

“Ash?” Eiji whispers. He doesn’t look down. There is something strictly off limits about watching Ash come apart and watching Ash this vulnerable. _Face. Hair. Nothing else._

Ash turns, and walks purposely down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Eiji sinks to the floor.


	4. submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry this took a bit longer than the last few updates. I've got another bang fic publishing in a few weeks that is taking all my attention! 
> 
> To make up for it, I offer...less angsty porn? Possibly? ;)
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the wonderful comments last chapter. I appreciate them all so much! They totally make my day <3

_iv. submission_

 

He reads the letter over again, for the third time. The paper is dry against the skin of his hands and it wavers ever so slightly as he starts to tremble. “Ash?”

  
“Yo,” Ash calls from down the hall. “What’s up?”

  
Eiji shakes his head and smiles. Despite the warring emotions that are churning in his stomach, Ash sounds better. Happier. Himself. “Can you come here for a minute?”

It takes a moment or two before Eiji hears the telltale sigh of Ash’s desk chair creak as he stands. He closes his eyes and listens to the light padding of sock feet down the hallway. He still moves like a cat—graceful, dangerous, ready to pounce.

“I was doing important work.”

“You were looking at porn,” Eiji states, primly.

Ash doesn’t even react. “Important work,” he refutes instead.

Eiji shakes his head, his grin pushing even further. His gaze falls upon the letter he’s holding one more time and just like that his smile fails. Unsure. Unspecific. Wanting.“It came,” Eiji says.

“Important work, Eiji,” Ash says one more time before throwing his legs over the couch and sliding elegantly down to perch next to Eiji on the couch.

Ash’s hand brushes Eiji’s hair and he leans in, his breath tickling the hairs back of Eiji’s neck. Eiji shrugs him off though and frowns. “It _came_ ,” he says, more insistently this time, and his grasp on the letter tightens.

“Oh,” Ash says, sitting back. “Oh! What did they say?”

“They’ve accepted me.” Eiji watches the smile bloom on Ash’s face and he quickly tucks his head down once more, letting his hair fall to obscure his eyes. “They’ve offered me a solo show in one of their galleries.”

“A solo show, Eiji? Shit!”

Ash pounds him on the back so hard that Eiji flies forward and coughs. “Jesus, Ash.”

“You’re too delicate. I’m trying to help.”

Eiji rolls his eyes.

“A solo show. Eiji Okumura. Photographer. Artist. Creator…” Ash drifts off, and leans his head back, fingers pushing through the air as though he’s performing incantations, conducting a symphony of emotion, imagining perfection.

“It’s in Brooklyn.”

The fingers stop for a moment, and then Ash’s hand drops into his lap. His smile doesn’t fade, but one eye opens. “Oh?”

“Don’t pretend. Tell me how you really feel. You always get quiet when you are trying to hide something.” Eiji leans over to set the letter down on the coffee table in front of them. There is a damp,

crumpled mark where his fingers had been gripping the page. He tries not to feel sick.

Ash inches closer and presses the palm of his hand against Eiji’s chest. Eiji’s heart is beating, and he can feel every thrumb as it pushes against that gentle touch.

“Is this alright,” Ash whispers and Eiji shudders.

“Ash, we need to talk about this--”

Ash’s hand disappears as though it were never there and Eiji’s heart pulses on, meter unsteady at the loss of pressure.

“What did you want for dinner?” Ash stands. Runs his hand through his hair.

Eiji watches it drift back down into place, like dandelion fuzz, like spider’s silk. “I don’t know if I should—”

“Of course you should go!” Ash shouts joyously, already turning toward the kitchen. “Call Sing! I’m sure he’d want to know. Show up. Bring whatever girl, guy…” Ash stumbles for a moment, “human,” he amends. “You know he’d want to see you.”

“He’d want to see you, also,” Eiji adds, his voice soft and meek. He is no lynx. He is a sheep. He is a lamb. He is a mouse.

“I’ve got that assignment for Max, Eij,” Ash calls out, absent now, but voice ringing hollowly with the nickname through the small living room.

Eiji breaths. He stands up, stretches, and reaches for his phone. “Yes, I know! I know you are busy. What is the word? Too busy…”

“Swamped,” Ash calls out, helpfully.

Eiji closes his eyes. “Yes. Swamped!” He dials Sing’s number.

***

They lay against each other in the dark room and though the moonlight is obscured by clouds, there is the barest whisper of illumination. It almost looks as though Ash is glowing, shining, giving off puffs of energy that are transformed into brilliance. Eiji closes his eyes and he can still see the perfect outline of Ash’s body, angular and long. Fingers brush his cheek and he looks again to see Ash staring at him.

It’s moments like these that Eiji understands what the color green means.

It’s moments like these that transform his soul.

“Is this alright,” Ash whispers.

His mantra. His obligation. 

Eiji shudders under his touch and reaches out to frame Ash’s face with his right hand. “Always.”

Ash’s mouth meets his and there is a softness there, a regret. Eiji mouths “Ash,” and Ash smiles under his tongue. This is a delight—this is something new and Eiji glides one finger down the gentle curve of Ash’s jaw. Their eyes are open and Ash looks hungry, _feral_ , in the darkness. He pulls away for a moment and slips down, underneath the covers, to where Eiji is painfully hard.

Ash’s hands grasp his hips and he kisses along the tender flesh, from hipbone to inner thigh, to cock, and Eiji presses a fist to his mouth, desperate to hide the single moan that escapes.

He can’t.

The sound emerges, mournful and full of want, and Ash’s fingers tighten impossibly around Eiji’s hip bones. He licks carefully along the sensitive flesh and then takes Eiji whole in his mouth.

“Oh my god,” Eiji murmurs, eyes shut and breath coming hard. “Oh my god, Ash, I’m—”

Ash doesn’t let up, and his mouth is warm and tender and so loving,

Eiji squirms but Ash holds him down firmly. “Ash I’m going to—”

He comes, and he can feel Ash swallowing around him and it is the most exquisite moment that can possibly exist because Ash pushes himself up and kisses Eiji then.

Eiji can taste himself on Ash’s mouth and something about that is so wildly untamed that he moans again at Ash’s mouth, then threads both his hands through Ash’s hair, holding him steady.

  
Ash braces one hand against the bed and pushes up, keeping a few inches between them, but the other is absent, and Ash’s breath catches against his lips.

Eiji watches green eyes, keeps his hands in place, and smiles. Ash closes his eyes then, in mocking dismissal of Eiji’s acceptance. There is movement, slight and unobtrusive as Ash works himself and still Eiji keeps his own hands immobile

It only takes a moment before Ash goes still, silent, unwavering. Eiji holds him for a few more moments and then tries to lean up for one last kiss.

Ash pushes away though and scratches at his temple. He is impossible young. Impossibly beautiful.

Impossibly docile.

 _“I want you to come with me back to New York,”_ Eiji wants to say, but he lets the silence unfold around them, endless in its depth.

“I think I love you,” Ash whispers. He looks confused. Then he stands up and leaves the room, padding gently down the hallway.

Eiji hears the bathroom door close and he falls back onto the pillow with a sigh.


	5. homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this wrote itself WAY faster then I expected! So FINALLY Sing has entered! And I couldn't be happier because he is just...the absolute best.
> 
> As always, thank you for your wonderfully encouraging feedback. I absolutely adore reading every single one of your comments!!

**_v. homecoming_ **

 

New York sings in the fall.

There is something almost erotic about the way the leaves turn, slowly withering, color leaching from within before they drop wistfully to the street below.

Eiji watches this from the park bench he is sitting on with a poetic desperation about him. His laptop sits on his knees, open with a blank e-mail pulled up on the foremost tab.

_Dear Ash,_

He types.

He erases it.

_Hey,_

He types.

He shuts the laptop and leans back in the seat, closing his eyes and breathing in the scummy city air.

“Move over.”

Eiji turns to look at the newcomer, and smiles as Sing shoves down next to him, playful, close enough for his windbreaker to move against Eiji’s bare skin despite the bench clearly having enough room for at least four people. He passes over a steaming cup that smells of green and caffiene and Eiji quickly takes it, inhaling the earthy scent of the tea. Then Sing just throws an arm around Eiji’s shoulders though as if this small sign of affection, of vulnerability, means absolutely nothing at all. He’s always been like this, Eiji thinks. Confident, rash, unwavering. Eiji fights the sudden urge to give in to the warmth and lean his head down against Sing’s shoulder.

“So!” Sing exclaims excitedly, his body tight with thrumming, unsung energy. “You really did it! You actually made something of yourself!”

“Uhhh…” Eiji murmurs. “Thank you?”

Sing laughs. “No! I don’t mean it like that. Don’t think anyone around here doubted that would happen once you took off. I just mean…photography. You stuck with it!”

“Yeah,” Eiji mumbles, the smile coming back for a moment. “Yeah. I did.” He sips at the tea and scowls as the small taste burns the back of his tongue.

“I don’t know how they do it in Japan, but in New York they actually serve things hot,” Sing remarks.

Eiji turns his scowl to Sing, who throws up his arms in protest, coffee and all.

“Just saying!”

They drift then, in companionable silence, watching the stray leaves flutter to the ground. A child on a bike goes whizzing by, followed by a woman jogging. The kid is laughing, scraggly brown hair flying loose from beneath his helmet, and the woman calls out to him to slow down. Just beyond them is an older gentleman, walking a very small, very loud, very obnoxious looking dog who is wearing a ghastly orange sweater. As they pass, Eiji watches the green collar bounce and jingle and has a sudden, unwavering urge to cry.

“How’s Ash?” Sing asks, full of self-assured nonchalance, as though he has also seen the dog in question and has followed along the widely varied synapses and connections of Eiji’s brain to arrive at the same conclusion.

“Better,” Eiji says, eyes still on the path in front of them.

“Wouldn’t take much,” Sing remarks, then takes a long drag of steaming hot coffee. He doesn’t scowl. He is indifferent to heat.

Eiji just shrugs. “He’s different. Changed. But happy I think.” His words fade off, drifting lazily through the faint breeze with the leaves.

“You sound confident.” There is a note of sarcasm there, of disbelief.

Eiji says nothing.

“Look, he left me here in charge of everything and…” Sing pauses. Grips the coffee tighter with both hands.

Eiji looks over to him then, noticing the barest tinge of tension from Sing’s tall frame.

Sing just sighs. “I won’t lie and pretend like I didn’t want to escape also. This isn’t what I wanted. This?” He motions outwards and all Eiji can see are moms pushing strollers and dads throwing balls and joggers full of the conceit of youth. There is laughter surrounding them and everything about the moment is full of magazine worthy clarity.

But Eiji knows what lies beneath.

“This life promises misery. Violent death.” He shrugs. “I was made for this. And so was Ash. But he escaped.” Sing takes another sip of coffee and turns towards Eiji with a smile. “I’d never begrudge him this, you know? This…” his eyes squint for a moment as if studying Eiji, “this thing you have. It’s not only Ash who’s changed.”

“I know,” Eiji says simply. “I know that. What we have is…it is good. It is just not simple. Not complete. Yet.”

Sing nods. “Yeah. Nothing’s ever easy.” He takes another sip of coffee, and then sets it down, holding it between his knees. “So what time is this thing again?”

“Oh!” Eiji looks up in surprise at the sudden topic change. So very casual. So very quick. So very Sing. “The gallery opening begins at 8pm.”

“Cool!” Sing says. “Uh…do I have to wear a tux or something?”

Eiji laughs then, trying to picture Sing looking anything but horrifically out of place in formal wear. “No, of course not! Just come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” Sing stands then, and looks back at Eiji. “Sorry I gotta run so fast. You know. Work and all.”

Eiji cocks his head.

“There’s some folks who’d love to see you. If you wanted to come with?”

“I’ll stop by the diner tomorrow if that is alright? I want to see them also.” Eiji laughs. “I feel badly for not writing! Or calling!”

“Naa, you were busy. We get it!”

They fall into comfortable silence once more, for just a moment, then Sing waves and turns to walk away.

“Sing?” Eiji calls out.

Sing turns.

“Thank you. For getting him out.”

There is an almost imperceptible nod, then Sing turns back and disappears down the path.

Somewhere off in the distance there is a laughing sound, and Eiji turns back to watch a couple of carefree teenagers throw a football back and forth.

***

The gallery is small, and crowded, and loud. Eiji moves cautiously around the furious press of bodies and tugs his navy blue suit coat tighter around himself.

He is innocuous.

He is bland.

He is invisible.

The inner pocket of his jacket buzzes and Eiji scoops out his phone with practiced ease.

_Good luck_

the text reads. No punctuation. No emojis. Plain, lyrical phonograms.

 _I miss you,_ Eiji types back swiftly. _I miss you. I wish you were here._

He lowers his hand and watches the swarms of people for a moment. There is a distinguished flow that emerges from the upper echelon of society as they take in the photographs, but still there seems to be a buzzing fury surrounding the corner of the gallery. Eiji closes his eyes. There is a large minimalist poster that directs traffic to the corner, entitled “The New York Collection.” His phone buzzes again.

_I know I’m sorry. I miss you too I just can’t._

Still straight. Matter of fact. Direct in it’s bluntness.

 _I love you_ , Eiji types. _I will call you later._

As he presses send his phone buzzes once more. An incoming text, received at the very moment his own went out.

_I love you_

“Eiji!”

Eiji looks up, and quickly tucks the phone back into his breast pocket. His face is warm and he can’t help the small, secret smile that begins to bloom.”Sing!” he acknowledges.

  
Sing is looking absolutely resplendent in an oversized NEW YORK t-shirt and tight black jeans. The small, secret smile grows even larger as warmth grows in Eiji’s chest. Eiji rushes him then, and pulls him into a hug. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course!” Sing beams. He pushes back and runs a hand through Eiji’s hand, ruffling his perfectly coifed black hair entirely askew.

 _It’s like having a little brother_ , Eiji thinks. _Who’s a foot and a half taller than you and has absolutely horrendous fashion sense._

***

They follow the winding flow of people and as Sing peers forward at all of Eiji’s photographs, and as Sing huffs in praise at all of Eiji’s photographs and as Sing smiles and pulls him in for an enormously warm hug while looking at all of Eiji’s photographs—

Eiji feels a kindling in his stomach that seems about to burst into flame with warmth and with joy and with happiness.

He’s done it.

He’s created something from nothing.

He’s shaped the world around him into something worthwhile.

They pause once they reach the corner. Eiji hangs back and motions for Sing to continue on, past the poster. He shuffles his feet, and pulls out his phone to check for messages (nothing) and runs his hand back through his hair once more.

Sing is still.

Eiji watches him from behind, watches the heave of his shoulders as he breathes, watches the way his hand reaches to his mouth and stays there. Watches as Sing walks up to one of the photographs, as close as he possibly can be, and reaches out a finger.

He stands this way for a long moment, perfectly still and statuesque, then he turns and walks back to Eiji, a lonely, haunted look in his eyes.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers.

“Sorry, I have trouble looking at those too much,” Eiji apologizes. “It was hard enough just…watching them put them up."

“I didn’t know,” Sing says again.

“What?” Eiji asks, confused.

“How you saw him then. How beautiful and lost and…tragic he was.”

Eiji cocks a smile, refusing to acknowledge the blush that is coloring his own cheeks. “You should be a poet, Sing.”

It is Sing who blushes then, and looks down. “It just brings back…it reminds me…” he stops. Unsure. “You are in love with him.” He finally settles on.

Eiji watches Sing’s eyes, looking for judgment, looking for dismissal, refusing to give in. “Always,” he says.

“I was in love with him too,” Sing comments. His eyes drift back to the corner then, to the largest photo framed against the wall. _“Golden Boy”_ It is titled. Eiji can recite the placard from memory. _Black and White. Eiji Okumura._

Eiji shrugs. It would be impossible not to love Ash Lynx in someway back then. He was power. Grace. Beauty. He says nothing in response.

Sing looks at him once more. “Thank you. For sharing this with me.”

Eiji shrugs again, suddenly uncomfortable. The intensity in his friend’s eyes is almost overwhelming.

Sing laughs then, the familiar bubbling joy replacing whatever solemnity was present just moments before. “God, you are an amazing photographer. Wanna do a piece on gang activity in New York?” He jabs Eiji in the gut then with an elbow, teasingly familiar, sarcastic and jovial and Sing.

“I am not doing that again, thank you very much,” Eiji quips back. “Hey, there is alcohol around here somewhere. Want to sit back and watch the rich people fight over who gets to buy my work?”

“Now you’re talking!” Sing exclaims, and he claps a hand back around Eiji’s shoulders.

Familiar.

Warm.

Welcoming.


	6. synchrony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Thank you SO much to all of you who commented, left kudos, and read. It was so wonderful writing this for such enthusiastic fandom folks--I just loved every minute of it! I truly hope the ending is satisfying (it is for me at least :) )
> 
> and I absolutely can't WAIT to write these two again sometime soon!
> 
> Love, Coop
> 
> [Tumblr](https://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/agentcoop1/)

_**vi. synchrony** _

 

As soon as Eiji’s key is in the lock, the door flies open, surprising him enough that he trips over the luggage at his feet. He catches himself on the hall railing, just in time to push back against the onslaught that is Aslan Jade Calanreese.

There is no time. There is no question. There are only Ash’s lips meeting his, hard, insistent, desperate, and Eiji, gripping the handrail with all his strength. “Ash,” he mutters against Ash’s lips, but the blond man just groans against him. The vibrations against his mouth are intoxicating.

There is a loud creaking sound from the apartment next door.

“Ash,” Eiji mutters more insistently, and puts a hand against Ash’s chest, pressing ever so gently.

Ash finally takes the hint, and retreats just far enough that Eiji can see his eyes now, just close enough that their knees still touch—electric. “We should…” Eiji gulps a breath in, trying to sound more confident then he feels. “We should move inside.”

“I missed you,” Ash says. It’s a stark proclamation. Fact, never fiction. His eyes are strong gemstones, sparkling, but with edges sharp enough to cut.

Eiji grins, his face heating. He nods his head towards the next-door apartment, and Ash turns to look at the old woman, peering out at them from crack of the open door.

“ _Were you in **need** of something?_” Ash asks in perfect Japanese, voice flinty with irritation.

She scowls at him from a safe distance. Then she opens the door slightly wider and nods towards Eiji, face barely softening. “ _Welcome back, Eiji-chan._ ”

Eiji doesn’t miss the bitterness of the appendage. He bows his head politely, squirming to get around Ash’s body. “ _Yamada-san_ ,” he says, eyes lowering. _“Apologies_.”

“Hmmph.” Mrs. Yamada spares one last glower for Ash, then slams the door as loud as her eighty-year-old body is able.

Ash finally cracks a grin at that, then turns back to Eiji. “Come back here,” he says.

“Inside,” Eiji retorts, primly. He brushes off his suit coat as though he’s been absolutely and terribly inconvenienced by the assault, and he struts to the open door. “Coming?” He calls, not looking back.

“Damn Japanese brat,” Ash mutters.

Eiji smiles.

***

They lie on the bed after, Eiji’s bare leg strewn across Ash’s midsection, Ash tangling his fingers perfectly, deftly, through Eiji’s thick, black hair. There is a warmth in Eiji’s stomach that’s growing with every breath that they spend here together. There is an insistent press of something more, something heavy, something almost whole against his chest.

They’d kissed, and they’d stroked, and Ash’s fingers had pressed along Eiji’s straight lines and Eiji’s mouth had sought out all of Ash’s angles. They explored each other’s bodies as though this was something new—something clean. Ash had moaned against Eiji’s throat and Eiji gasped as warm fingers wrapped around his heavy cock. There was nothing but the sound of breathing, and skin sliding, and murmurs of pleasure, and when Eiji came in Ash’s hand, Ash closed his eyes and whispered, “please…touch me.”

This was pure. It was unfettered joy. It was years of sacrifice but it was also forgiveness.

Now Ash lies, eyelashes fluttering against Eiji’s cheek and Eiji is loathe to break the moment with something so harsh as spoken word.

So, instead, he breathes. He feels the way his heart thrums against the cavity of his chest. He imagines he can feel the blood push through his veins, return from his arteries. He closes his eyes and in the places that his flesh meets Ash’s he can almost sense the sparkling fingers of enchantment cloaking them with safety. Ash’s heart beats near him and for a moment, just a moment, the two are coursing together, the sound of the _thump thump, thump thump_ rhythmic and monotonous and one.

The New York Collection is seven thousand miles away, parts being stored for the next gallery show, parts being shipped to buyers from around the world. No longer present. No longer everything.

Now it is only a memory.

_*****Two years later***** _

“Ash, just slow down for one seconds!” Eiji shouts, exasperated, but the joy in his voice refusing to be stifled.

“Good lord, big brother,”Ash yells from across the room. “Second. It’s second. Not seconds. No plural. We’ve been over this!”

He pokes his head around the door frame that leads into the kitchen and Eiji sticks out his tongue.

“Mature,” Ash says. “Very becoming of a famous artist.”

“Just like idiocy is so becoming of a journalist,” Eiji retorts. His hands tremble though, as he tapes up the last box, then stands. He surveys the living room—empty and barren. The furniture was sold, the wood floor and walls empty. Eiji toes a sneaker against a scuff in the floor, a remnant from when he moved in and Ibe dropped the end of the couch, moments before it would have been in the right position.

He chases the memory back to Ibe, standing in the large apartment, hugging him and whispering in his ear. “ _We’ll all be here for you. No matter what you decide.”_

He’d been very much alone then. Very much a frail, scared child. Empty, out of place, out of time.

“How much more do you have left in there?” Eiji calls.

Ash strolls into the living room. His hands are in his pockets, his bright red hoody is zipped to his chin. His blond hair is pulled back into a casual ponytail, but wisps of down still frame his face and move in the soft breeze that pushes through the open window.

It’s springtime in Izumo and the scent of rain is in the air.

Ash pushes his wire frames up on his nose again and sniffs. “Doesn’t look like much when it’s all empty,” he says.

Eiji just shrugs. “It wasn’t much.” He thinks for a moment, then amends. “It was everything.”

Ash looks up at him and nods. “Everything,” he repeats, voice quiet. He squints his eyes closed for a second, then pulls out his cell phone. “Shit,” he says. “We’ve gotta move.”

Eiji steps closer, refusing to let this part of their life come to a close without a moment of simple meditation. He rises up on his toes and wraps his hands around Ash’s neck. Kisses him softly, slowly, tasting the boy, tasting New York, tasting growth, tasting the man, tasting new, tasting new, tasting new. He lets go with a smile. “You sure you’re ready to go back to the States?”

Ash grins at him. “You know the job for me is better out there. And you know how much the gallery wants you.”

Eiji nods. “Ok.”

“Are you alright?” Ash says then, suddenly unsteady. “Leaving your home again?”

“Izumo is not home,” Eiji states. “And I hear Seattle smells strongly of fish as well. I probably won’t notice a difference. Being a Japanese idiot and all!”

Ash laughs, and bends down, pulling up one of the suitcases and hauling towards the front door. He twists the knob and the door swings open. Ash steps through.

Eiji follows, sparing one last glance back at the empty apartment. Ibe will be by later to pick up the few last boxes of things they don’t have room for. Things they cherish, but don’t want to travel with. Ash’s collection of Hemingway. Eiji’s collection of…well…oddities. More books. The second computer. The extra blankets and clothes and knick knacks gathered from two years of staying in the same place.

Eiji follows Ash and his left hand finds Ash’s right, looping together. “Home is wherever you are,” he says.

Ash squeezes his hand once, and the door swings shut behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr [here](https://iamagentcoop.tumblr.com/) for writing updates, and all things Banana Fish, Marvel, and Fantasy stuff <3


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